


Coming Home

by timehopper



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Exes to Lovers, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 17:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30092361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: It's been about a year since Sylvain showed up on Claude's doorstep with his son in tow. And even though they all know they can't live like this forever, that doesn't mean Claude wants them to leave.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Kudos: 32





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyxari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyxari/gifts).



> This is a(n extremely late!) holiday gift for my dear friend Ama! I wanted to write something nice for them and they asked me to write a part of their Exes to Lovers/Fankid AU, which I absolutely adore. The more we talked about it, the more I fell in love with Leif, Sylvain's son, and I'm super honoured to have been able to help bring some of this AU to life!
> 
> Leif belongs to Ama. Thank you for letting me write him!

It’s been more than a year now since Claude had invited Sylvain to stay with him. It’s been just as long since he’d turned up on Claude’s doorstep with a sheepish smile and an unexpected someone else in tow.

That had been how Claude found out that Sylvain had a son. It had been a bit of a shock at the time, to say the least – but even more surprising was that Sylvain was apparently a happy, doting father who loved his kid more than anything. He didn’t seem to mind at all that he had someone else to take care of now outside of himself. In fact, he’d flourished from it.

Most surprising of all, however, had been how quickly Claude had gotten attached to the kid.

He smiles as he stands at the counter now, watching little Leif play in the living room. Some cartoon with talking dogs is on, and every so often Leif will look up from the tower he’s building with blocks to see what the puppies have to say. The little metropolis Leif has created is as impressive as it is nonsensical, sprawling over the floor seemingly at random. But Leif is a clever kid, and even as young as he is, there’s a method to his madness; if Claude were to look long enough, he’s sure he could decipher the pattern. 

He almost goes over to ask. Claude takes the first step away from the counter to go and observe the kid, but before he can Leif shoots up and runs over to the kitchen. “Papa!” he calls, arms outstretched. “Papa, I’m thirsty!” 

Claude raises a brow. He looks over to Sylvain, who’s standing at the stove and frying up a grilled cheese sandwich for Leif’s lunch. Sylvain looks over his shoulder and shrugs, just as confused as Claude. Leif has never called him ‘Papa’ before. 

“Sure, kiddo. What do you want to drink?” he asks. 

“No, not you!” Leif shakes his head. He marches right up to Claude and starts tugging on the hem of his shirt. “Claude-Papa, can I have some juice?” 

A beat passes. It feels as though the temperature around them drops, and Claude turns to look at Sylvain. Sylvain is doing an impressive job of keeping a straight face, but the shock of the moment registers clear as day in his eyes. 

“Hey, now—” Sylvain starts to say, at the exact same time Claude says, “Sure you can.” 

Leif smiles wide and lets go so Claude can walk over to the fridge. It’s about two feet from the stove, and Claude can feel Sylvain’s eyes burning into him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that his surprise has hardened into something… else. Something unreadable. 

Something that Claude knows, from experience, is not good. 

“What kind do you want, Leif?” Claude asks, careful to sound cheerful despite the apprehension roiling in his chest. “We’ve got apple, orange, grape…” 

“Grape please.” 

Claude nods. He pulls the carton from the fridge, grabs one of Leif’s little plastic cups (“Green one please, Claude-Papa!”), and fills it up. He puts it on the kitchen island; Leif tries to climb up the chair to grab it, but when he nearly tips the chair over, he allows Claude to lift him into it instead. As Leif reaches for the cup, he lets his little legs hang over the edge of the seat and kicks his feet against the island while he waits for his lunch. 

“Here you go, Leif,” Sylvain says. He sets the sandwich, cut into little triangles, down in front of his son and sits down next to him, making a show of going to steal one of the pieces before the plate is yanked out from under his hand. 

“No!” Leif giggles.

“Aw, you’re not even going to share? You’re going to make me go hungry?” 

Leif grins toothily. This is a game they’ve played a lot, and Claude finds himself smiling fondly at the routine. It soothes his sudden bout of nerves – at least until Sylvain interrupts the game and adopts a more serious expression. 

“Hey, Leif,” he says. His voice is soft – a tone Claude recognizes as the one Sylvain uses when he’s trying to start a difficult conversation. 

The same one he’d used when he and Claude broke up, all those years ago. 

Leif turns to his dad, crumbs on his face and cheeks puffed and full of food. Sylvain grabs a napkin to wipe his face off, and continues. “I know you’re having a good time staying here, and you’ve gotten really attached to Claude… but you can’t call him ‘Papa,’ okay?”

Leif swallows loudly. His brows knit together, comically tight, and he bounces in his seat. “Why not?” 

Sylvain’s eyes dart up to Claude, then back down to his son. He looks uncertain for a moment, as though he doesn’t know what to say, so Claude fills in the gap: “It’s okay—” 

“No, it’s not.” Sylvain is quick to cut him off. “We’re not… you know. It’s not like that, Leif; Claude is just Daddy’s friend, okay? It’s like with Uncle Dimitri and Uncle Felix, right?” 

Leif shakes his head. Claude wants to do the same, but he refrains, unwilling to let the sting of Sylvain’s words show. 

“We don’t live with Uncle Felix and Uncle Mitri,” Leif protests. “We live with Claude-papa.”

“Yeah, but…” Sylvain sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Living with someone doesn’t automatically make them your papa,” he says. “Understand?” 

Leif pouts. He takes another bite of his sandwich with a little ‘hmph!’, and that’s as much an acquiescence as they’re going to get. Sylvain tries to smile despite how obvious it is that he’s just as unhappy about all this as Leif. “Thanks, kiddo.” 

He stands up to go clean the dishes he’d dirtied cooking, ruffling Leif’s hair as he goes. Quietly, Claude crosses the kitchen to join Sylvain at the sink.

The moment his back is turned, Leif’s cup clatters to the floor. 

Claude and Sylvain turn around in perfect sync. Sure enough, grape juice has splattered all over the floor and island counter. Leif looks up at the two of them, eyes wide. 

“Oops,” he says. 

“Leif…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Claude says, plastering a smile on his face. Sylvain’s hands are still wet from rinsing the dishes, so Claude takes the initiative and grabs some paper towels to clean up. “Accidents happen, right?” 

“Sorry, Pa—” Leif glances up at Sylvain and cuts himself off. “I’m sorry, Claude.” 

Claude swipes the paper towels over the mess. “It’s okay,” he says. “I forgive you.” 

If only all messes were so easily cleaned up.

* * *

The next few weeks are a challenge. 

Much to Sylvain’s chagrin, Leif does not stop calling Claude ‘Papa.’ He’s careful about it, though, only saying it when he thinks Sylvain is out of earshot – or when he knows he isn’t and he’s trying to get one over on his dad. It would make Claude laugh if it weren’t causing so many problems – Leif is so much like Sylvain it’s almost scary sometimes. Clever and witty and far too good at lying. 

“Sorry, Daddy,” Leif says after Sylvain asks him not to call Claude Papa for the third time in two days, looking down at his feet and scuffing at the floor with his toes. “I forgot.” 

He most certainly did not forget. Claude knows it. Sylvain knows it. Leif knows it, too, and his little act seems to be more a test than anything, to see if either of them will finally call him out on his misbehaviour. They haven’t so far, but…

Tonight is the night, it seems. Sylvain sighs; Claude looks over to him and takes a step back, deciding it’s for the best to give him and his son a little bit of space. He moves over to the kitchen, pulling out two mugs and moving around as if to prepare himself and Sylvain each an evening cup of tea, but he keeps one ear and one eye turned toward the two of them at all times, ready to jump in if something goes awry. 

Sylvain crouches down in front of Leif and puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay to forget things sometimes,” he starts. Leif fidgets under his father’s grip, and for a moment Claude wonders if he’s going to wrench himself away, but Sylvain holds him fast. “But you’ve been doing an awful lot of forgetting lately, haven’t you?” 

Leif huffs. He makes a more valiant effort to squirm out from under Sylvain. This time, Sylvain lets him go, and Leif crosses his arms. “It’s hard.” 

Claude has the distinct feeling that Leif doesn’t mean remembering is hard. He’s sure Sylvain feels the same, since he can see the way his jaw tightens and he forces a smile. 

“I know,” he says. “But you have to try, okay? I don’t want you calling Claude that anymore.”

Claude looks down at his hands, which have started to spoon tea leaves into a strainer of their own accord. He can feel Leif’s eyes on him, presumably to seek backup. And although Claude _wants_ to back him up, to tell Sylvain that really, it’s fine, he doesn’t mind, he had recognized the note of finality in Sylvain’s voice when he’d heard it.

Leif stomps his foot. Claude hears it rather than sees it, and in that moment, he knows something is about to happen. He sets his jaw and focuses on the tea. Three spoonfuls of leaves in the strainer, a half-spoon of honey in the mug for Sylvain...

“No!”

And there it is. Leif’s voice pitches upward and he stomps his foot again. Sylvain reaches for him, but this time he twists away and pushes the hand on his shoulder off. 

“Hey, c’mon – Leif, please—”

“No!” Leif repeats, sounding close to tears. Claude looks up, unable to help himself. He sees Leif shove at Sylvain and turn on his heel, only to run off and plant himself squarely on his feet in the corner of the room. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and sniffs, but does not sob; he’s not crying, at least, and so it’s not much of a surprise then when Sylvain stands up and retreats to the kitchen where Claude’s still preparing the tea. 

He sighs heavily as he slumps into one of the seats at the kitchen island. Claude pushes a mug at him, empty but for the honey pooled in the bottom of it. 

“What’s he doing?” he asks under his breath, quiet so that Leif can’t hear. 

“He’s put himself in timeout,” Sylvain says. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing his messy bangs out of his eyes just enough that Claude can see the strain in them. He must be exhausted if he’s not bothering to try and hide how haggard he looks.

“Does he… do that a lot?” 

“No.” Sylvain shakes his head. “He hasn’t done it since before we moved here. He must really be upset…” 

He turns to look at his son over his shoulder. The heartbreak in his expression is palpable, and Claude wants to reach out and touch him, distract him, do something – anything – to soothe it away.

He doesn’t move. He just watches. Leif is still standing in the corner facing the wall. He hasn’t moved, either. Sylvain’s frown tightens.

“What can we do?” Claude asks.

Sylvain turns back to him. He folds his arms over the counter and hangs his head. “Nothing,” he says. “We just have to wait until he cools down a bit. Trying to talk to him now will just make him more upset.” 

Claude doesn’t say anything to that. He just nods and fetches the kettle once it goes off, returning with it to steep the tea and watch the steam billow from the surface of Sylvain’s mug. 

They drink in silence, Sylvain sitting at the island and Claude leaning over it. Nearly ten minutes pass before Leif comes out of the corner, his eyes downcast as he shuffles over to them. 

Sylvain turns in his seat, happy to meet Leif when he reaches them. Wordlessly, Leif reaches for the hem of Sylvain’s sweater. He tugs on it and Sylvain lifts him up into his lap. 

“Feeling better, kiddo?” he asks, voice soft. 

“No.” Leif shakes his head. 

“Yeah, didn’t think so.” He shifts so Leif can sit more comfortably on his lap. “But I know something that’ll cheer you up.” 

Leif lifts his head to gaze hesitantly at Sylvain. “What?” 

“Some hot chocolate.”

Leif’s face lights up. “Really? But Daddy, it’s almost bedtime!” 

“Right you are, little man, so you’d better drink it fast. Go put your jammies on and I’ll bring it to you, okay? We can have hot chocolate in bed.” 

Leif nods emphatically, knowing not to test his dad’s good humour. “Okay!” He hops off of Sylvain’s lap and scurries down the hall to his room. Claude watches him go with an amused smile on his face, which he turns on Sylvain the moment they’re alone again. 

“You know he’s gonna be up all night now, right?” he says. 

Sylvain shrugs. “I’ll read him an extra long story tonight or something.” 

“And if that doesn’t work?” 

Sylvain laughs. “Then I’ll sit him in front of the TV and make him watch nature documentaries with you. I mean, he’ll probably still manage to stay awake longer than you will, but...” 

Claude dips his fingers in the dregs of his cooled tea and flicks them at Sylvain. All it earns him is a flinch and a laugh, but Claude thinks that he probably couldn’t ask for a better reward. 

* * *

When Sylvain brings Leif his hot chocolate, he forgets to close the door all the way behind him. Claude knows this only because he can hear the low, soothing tone of Sylvain’s voice floating through the crack in the door as he passes by. 

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop – he really doesn’t – but Claude has never been able to resist the allure of a good conversation, and especially one he hadn’t been invited to. At least in this case, he’s listening in out of some semblance of concern for his… his what? His roommate? His friend? His ex-boyfriend? And the kid that said roommate-slash-friend-slash-ex-boyfriend is raising, whom Claude has grown inexplicably attached to despite not knowing he’d even existed a year ago? 

He tells himself it doesn’t matter who or what they are to him. The three of them all live together under the same roof, no matter how temporary that may be. Claude has a right to know when something is amiss in his own home, and even aside from that, he cares about Leif and Sylvain. More than he has ever admitted out loud. 

So, with that in mind, Claude treads lightly on the hardwood floor and presses himself against the wall. He turns his head so he can peer at Sylvain and Leif through the tiny crack between the door and its frame. They can’t see him like this: the shadows of the dark hallway hide him completely from sight. 

Not that they’re trying to look, anyway. Leif is tucked into bed, Sylvain sitting on the edge of it and smiling ruefully. 

“I know you’re still upset with me,” he says, so softly that Claude has to strain to hear. “And I don’t blame you. It’s not very nice to hear me say ‘no’ all the time, is it?” 

Leif stays quiet. Claude can’t see his face, turned down toward the sheets as it is. 

Sylvain continues: “I don’t like saying ‘no’ either. But I do it for a reason, you know?” 

“I don’t like it.” 

“I know. And I know a bit of hot chocolate isn’t going to make everything better. Even after all that, you still want me to leave you alone, right?” 

Again, Leif is silent. Something tightens in Claude’s chest at that. He recognizes Sylvain’s tone: flat, matter-of-fact, even – but unable to completely mask the undercurrent of hurt lurking beneath the surface. It’s the same tone that had played in Claude’s mind, over and over again, for months after they’d split up.

_It’s for the best, right?_

Sylvain doesn’t say those words to Leif, not now, but Claude can sense them in his tone all the same. Sylvain is only trying to do what he thinks is best for his son. Claude knows it. He’s always known it. 

Why, then, does it hurt so much to face it? 

“I’ve been thinking...” Sylvain presses on, oblivious to the way Claude’s hands tighten into fists at his sides, unaware of the chill that settles in his stomach. “Maybe you need some space, yeah? So how does a sleepover with Uncle Dimitri and Uncle Felix sound?” 

At that, Leif looks up. He doesn’t look… happy, per se, but he does look interested. Curious, really, as if he’s trying to figure out Sylvain’s angle. Even as young as he is, Leif is sharp enough to know that his dad wouldn’t offer something like this _just because_. There’s something Sylvain wants, but Leif hasn’t quite puzzled it out yet.

Claude, however, thinks he might have an inkling.

Leif fidgets, and then at last, a small, hopeful smile cracks over his face. “...Can I, Daddy? Please?” he asks, tentative. 

Sylvain nods. “Of course. If you want, they can come pick you up tomorrow.” 

Leif’s smile blooms. “Yes, please.” 

“Okay.” Sylvain smiles, too, but there’s something sad in it. It’s gone quickly, though, like a flicker of darkness as a candle catches flame. “I’ll get right on that. But for now, it’s bedtime.” 

Leif giggles as Sylvain pulls the sheets up over his head. He cries out a muffled protest – something like “That’s not how it works, Daddy!” – and Claude shuffles away from the door, a fond but hollow smile on his face and a cold, anxious weight settling in his chest.

* * *

Sylvain arranges for Felix and Dimitri to come get Leif in the evening. Claude helps Leif pack an overnight bag (even though they both know Sylvain is better suited to the task – where Sylvain folds Leif’s clothes neatly and tidily, Claude finds it more fun to turn packing into a game where they try to throw Leif’s things into the bag). Everything ends up in a jumbled mess that Sylvain eventually has to re-pack, but at least they have fun when Claude pretends to steal and hide Leif’s toothbrush. 

When the telltale knock on the door comes, Claude is on the couch reading a book. He turns the page, but does not continue reading; instead he listens, smiling to himself as Leif throws the door open and greets his honorary uncles. 

Sylvain makes his way to the door to see Leif off. He ends up chatting with Dimitri and Felix for a moment, which means Leif has time to come over and say his goodbyes for the night, and Claude is silently grateful for it.

Gods, but he adores this kid.

Leif tugs at Claude’s pant leg when Claude starts reading a paragraph of his book out loud, and laughs when the book is suddenly tossed aside so Claude can gather Leif up in his arms and give him a big, crushing goodbye hug. 

“Be good for Uncle Dimitri, okay?” he says.

Leif giggles. “Okay!” 

“And be bad for Uncle Felix. Give him hell.” 

“ _I heard that._ ” 

From the doorstep, Felix glowers at them. Claude twists around to face him better, lifts his hand in a wave, and grins cheekily at him. It just makes the crease in Felix’s brow grow deeper, but he’s saved from developing permanent wrinkles when Leif blows a raspberry… right at Claude, and right in his face.

“That’s mean, Pa – um, Claude,” he says, catching and correcting himself at the last second. Sylvain is still in earshot, after all – or maybe Leif really is trying to behave this time. There had been no indication of his usual defiance in his voice, and there’s no mischievous smile on his face. If anything, Leif looks… sad. Upset. Uneasy. 

“Hey.” Claude frowns. He releases Leif and shifts back a bit, trying to get a better look at his face. “Is something wrong?” 

Leif shakes his head vehemently and turns away to try and hide his face. It doesn’t stop Claude from noticing how close to tears he looks. “No, I’m okay.” 

He most certainly isn’t okay. Claude opens his mouth to ask again, but before he can, he hears Dimitri call out from the door: “Come now, Leif, are you ready to go?” 

“Coming,” he calls back. He hesitates a moment, though, and turns back to Claude. He no longer looks like he’s about to cry, but he still keeps his head down as he tackles Claude in another hug. “Okay, I’m going now,” he says, voice so tiny and broken it’s as if he’s confessing something, rather than just saying a simple see-you-later. “...Bye, Claude.”

He pulls away and hops off the couch. Claude watches him go, stunned for a moment, but he quickly gathers himself and forces a smile. “See you later, Leif! Have fun!” 

Behind him, Sylvain and Leif say their goodbyes. Claude turns his attention back to his book, but listens to the sound of fading laughter as Dimitri escorts Leif to the car.

Felix doesn’t leave yet, though. He lingers, saying something to Sylvain, but his voice is too low for Claude to hear.

Mostly, anyway. Claude swears he catches a quiet _“don’t screw this up”_ from Felix before the door finally clicks shut. 

And that leaves Claude and Sylvain completely and utterly alone.

Claude’s eyes fix on his book. In truth, they’re still fixed on the same spot they’d been once Leif had scurried off, and they remain there, unmoving and unfocused until Sylvain flops down next to him on the couch. 

They sit there in silence for a moment, Claude pretending to read (though he’s certain Sylvain has noticed he’s not), and Sylvain staring into space, eyes trained on a spot in the corner above the TV. 

He’s waiting for something. Claude isn’t sure what, but it’s making him uneasy, and he’s not feeling patient enough to wait all night for Sylvain to initiate… whatever it is he’s about to initiate, so he decides to kick things off instead. 

“So,” he says, dog-earing his page before turning it. “What are you going to do with your night of freedom?” 

It’s just the push Sylvain had been waiting for. He exhales a deep breath, sagging against the back of the couch and lifting a hand to run his fingers through his parted bangs. “We need to talk.” 

No hesitation, no preamble. Whatever this is, it’s serious. “Do we?” 

“Yeah.” Sylvain looks at Claude; Claude closes his book. He doesn’t look Sylvain in the eye.. 

“Go on, then.” 

Another sigh. “Leif’s pissed off at me because I won’t let him call you Papa,” he says miserably, confirming Claude’s secret suspicion. “So I need you to stop letting him get away with it.” 

Claude’s jaw tightens. He sets his book on the coffee table, just to give himself something to do other than lash out immediately, and by the time the book is out of his hands he’s forced himself to relax. “I’m not letting him get away with it.” 

“Yes you are.” Sylvain’s voice is firm, leaving no room for questions. “Don’t lie to me, Claude. I know you better than that.” 

This time, Claude’s the one to let out a long sigh. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal,” he lies, even though Sylvain just asked him not to. “I told you I don’t mind.” 

“But I do.” Sylvain’s voice grows a little louder, and Claude can hear the strain in it. He’s fighting not to get mad, and although the effort is somewhat appreciated, it mostly just irritates Claude. It makes him want to poke and prod at Sylvain until he comes out and says what’s really bothering him. He bites his tongue, though – Claude knows when to wait things out and when to strike. Especially with Sylvain. “And bullshit, you don’t know.” 

Oh, there it is, there’s that venom that Sylvain always tries so hard to bite back. Claude keeps his expression carefully neutral and says, slowly, “I don’t. Would you care to enlighten me?” 

Sylvain glares at him. “I’m not fooling around, Claude,” he says. “I mean it. Stop letting him call you Papa. You’re not his dad.” 

Claude’s eyes widen, then narrow. The words sting, even if they’re true, and even if Claude has known it all along and never presumed to be anything more than what he is: just a friend of Sylvain’s, graciously allowing him and his son to stay with him until they find a place of their own. 

Forget the fact that his motives aren’t quite so gracious. 

“I know that,” Claude snaps, unable to keep his voice completely even. He doesn’t mean for the words to come out as harsh as they do, so he collects himself a moment before continuing. “So that’s it, then, is it? Are you worried I’m taking your place or something?” 

He knows that’s not the case, but in saying that, Claude is giving Sylvain an out. He’s making up an excuse for Sylvain to get mad so that he doesn’t have to voice his real concern, or say the words Claude dreads him saying.

The same ones they’d already said to each other years ago. 

_It’s for the best._

For once, though, Sylvain doesn’t take the bait. Claude should have expected it; Sylvain always did have a habit of finding ways to surprise him. “That’s not gonna happen. And this isn’t about me being insecure, or how much Leif obviously adores you.”

“Then what is it about, Sylvain?” 

“I don’t want to hurt him!” 

All the tension in the room snaps at those words, at the crackling volume of Sylvain’s voice. He’s on his feet, now, hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He’s trembling, though if it’s from anger or worry or concern, Claude isn’t sure. 

He wants, so badly, to reach out and touch Sylvain now. To take his hand and pull him close, to tell him everything is going to be all right. 

But he can’t.

“Hey,” Claude breathes instead. He leans forward, all the fight leaving him at the look on Sylvain’s face: hurt, strain, fear. “Hey.” 

Sylvain’s breath shakes as he inhales through his nose. His shoulders sag, too, and he sits back down, burying his face in his hands. “Sorry,” he says. “I… I don’t know what came over me. You don’t need to see me like that. It’s just… we aren’t going to be here forever, you know?” 

Claude knows. He knows all too well.

He stays silent. 

“We’re going to have to leave eventually.” The way Sylvain says it, it’s more like he’s trying to convince himself than Claude. “We can’t stay here forever. We’ve already been here too long. And if Leif gets too attached, then…” 

“Then don’t go,” Claude blurts out before he has time to even think. Sylvain’s eyes snap up to him, wide and uneasy, and Claude snaps his mouth shut with a little click. 

“We have to,” Sylvain states. “I’m not going to let myself take advantage of you forever.” 

“It’s not taking advantage.” 

“It is.” Sylvain shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “You’ve done so much for us. You’ve housed us for over a year, kept us fed, put up with me dragging my kid into your life without warning… you even gave Leif his own _room_ , Claude. It’s too much.” 

“I did all that because I wanted to,” Claude says. And that’s the truth of the matter: at first, Claude had been apprehensive about inviting his ex to stay with him while he got back on his feet. He’d been even more unsure about the whole thing when Sylvain had turned out to have a child almost nobody knew about. Claude had thought, at the time, about turning him away, or insisting the stay be even shorter-term than he’d first offered; but as time passed, Claude found himself getting attached. No – more than just _attached_. He’d come to love the company, come to love the noise of a full home, come to love the energy and laughter Sylvain and Leif brought into his life. 

But even more than that, Claude had come to love Leif – and he had realized, rather quickly, that he’d never stopped loving Sylvain after all. 

“Claude…”

Sylvain’s voice cuts through the silence. His lips draw together in a tight line, and Claude smiles hollowly in return. 

“If I wanted you gone, I would have made you leave a long time ago,” he says, eyes fixing on Sylvain’s, gaze steadfast and unwavering. “I turned my old office into a bedroom for Leif because I wanted him to have his own space. I did it because I _want_ you two here, Sylvain.”

Sylvain looks away. “We have to leave eventually.” 

“No you don’t!” Without thinking, Claude grabs Sylvain’s hand, snatching it from where it rests on the couch and dragging it to him. He ignores the look of surprise on Sylvain’s face, barreling on before he loses his nerve: “You don’t have to go. You can stay.” 

Sylvain’s gaze hardens. His hand tenses in Claude’s grip. For a moment, Claude thinks he’s going to pull away. 

He doesn’t.

“Tell me that’s what you want,” Sylvain says. His voice is raw, scratchy, low. Trembling, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “Tell me you want me to stay.” 

Claude doesn’t hesitate. “I want you to stay.” 

“...Again.” 

“I want you to stay.” 

“ _Again._ ” 

“Sylvain, I want you—” 

But this time, he doesn’t get to finish. Sylvain is on him faster than Claude can blink, cutting him off with a rough, desperate kiss. 

And Claude kisses him back. 

He kisses back, and he kisses back, and he kisses back, over and over again, eyes slipping shut and free hand coming up to tangle in Sylvain’s hair. He pulls his ex-boyfriend close, so close it’s almost painful, but he keeps going anyway, lips moving in tandem with Sylvain’s and parting to let him in. Their teeth click together uncomfortably, and he’s certain he’s nicked Sylvain with his, but that’s okay: Claude’s tongue runs along the point of contact, soothing it and coaxing a low, throaty moan from Sylvain for his effort. 

They shift on the couch so Claude is lying on his back and Sylvain can kneel between his legs. His hand comes up to rest on Claude’s neck, thumb resting just above his pulse point before pushing down, just the way Claude likes it. Claude is forced to break the kiss then, his head falling back so he can gasp for breath—

And Sylvain is there an instant, trailing kisses from Claude’s jaw to his ear. “Claude,” he whispers, broken and reverent. “Claude…”

“Stay,” Claude repeats on an exhale. His hand tightens in Sylvain’s hair and he half-heartedly tries to pull him away at the exact same time he tilts his head and stretches his neck to beg for more. 

“Yeah,” Sylvain breathes against his skin. “I’ll stay, I’ll – _we’ll_ stay.” He’s babbling now, barely able to form coherent sentences, and Claude twists and ducks down to capture his lips in another kiss to save him the trouble. “Please, Claude, please—” 

They break apart, Claude’s hand cupping Sylvain’s jaw and his thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth. He can feel the barest hint of stubble peppering Sylvain’s skin, and the texture of it, rough and uneven, makes Claude shiver with want. 

“I’ve got you,” he says. “You and Leif both. I’m here for you. You’re home.” 

Sylvain’s breath bursts out of him in a ragged exhale. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice cracking on the word. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to hear you say that.” 

“Yeah?” Claude laughs, but it comes out weak, watery. He threads his fingers in Sylvain’s hair again and curls them, holding him tightly in place. Like if he were to let go, Sylvain would pull away and vanish. “I think I might have some idea.” 

“I never got over you, you know.” Sylvain’s voice is low, barely a whisper. It’s more a breath than anything, and if Claude hadn’t seen his lips move, he might have though he’d imagined it. “After you left for Almyra – everywhere I went, I kept seeing you. Kept thinking about everything we did together, all the place we’d kissed, every time we’d sneak off to find a dark corner and fuck…” He closes his eyes. “I had to leave. I couldn’t take it anymore. And then Leif happened, and…” 

“It’s okay,” Claude says. He leans up and presses his lips to Sylvain’s forehead, kissing him softly and lingering there until he feels Sylvain’s trembling subside. “I thought about you every day while I was in Almyra. I couldn’t bring myself to do any more than that, though, because I knew if we talked too much, I’d want to come back.” 

“I’d have followed you there if I thought I had a chance.” 

“I know.” And oh, did Claude know it. “I didn’t want you to throw everything away for me. If you had...”

“I never would have met Leif.” Sylvain smiles and Claude leans back down to look into his downcast eyes. And when Sylvain meets his gaze, he shakes his head. “Life’s funny like that, huh?” 

“That it is.” 

And just like that, things are okay between them. They settle into a comfortable silence, shifting apart so Claude can sit up and they can rest side by side on the couch. Sylvain’s knee bumps up against Claude’s thigh. Claude laces their fingers together, letting their joined hands lie between them. He runs his thumb lightly over Sylvain’s knuckles, noting the scar on one of them he’d earned jumping a fence in high school.

It’s hard to tell what Sylvain is thinking, the way he’s gazing down at their hands with a faraway look in his eye, but Claude has a few good guesses. No doubt Sylvain’s mind is racing with questions now, too: where do they go from here? How do they tell their friends? How do they tell Leif? 

It’s enough to make a man go mad. So, unwilling to just sit there and stew in his thoughts alone a moment longer, Claude says, “Now what?” 

It’s enough to snap Sylvain out of his reverie. He levels Claude with a sly look, narrowing his eyes and grinning seductively. “Well, since we’re clearly not over each other, we could always try and get reacquainted with each other’s bodies…” 

“Down, boy.” Claude shifts and nudges Sylvain in the chest with his foot, the pose somewhat awkward since he refuses to unlink their hands. “You know my rule. No sex on the first date.” 

“This is hardly our first date,” Sylvain says. But then he pauses, raising an expectant brow. “Wait, is this a date?”

“It could be.” 

“Then we should probably… do… date things,” Sylvain says. “We’ve got the kissing covered, so…” 

Claude inclines his head toward the TV. “Movie?” 

“I’ll make the popcorn?” 

“Sounds like a date to me.” Claude leans forward and gives Sylvain a quick peck on the lips, and Sylvain swings an arm around his shoulders to hold him in place and deepen it.

They never do get to the movie.

* * *

In the morning, Claude wakes up to a hand on his back. He opens his eyes to see Sylvain smiling at him, still drowsy, his hair bright and wispy and like fire in the morning sun. 

“Good morning,” he says. 

“Good morning,” Claude echoes. 

They kiss, slow and soft. It’s easy to get distracted by the way Sylvain feels against him: his warmth, his scent, his touch. Claude feels like he could stay in bed like this forever, tangled up in Sylvain beneath the bedsheets. And though he knows he can’t, he does allow himself to indulge before he forces himself away and into the shower. He has half a mind to invite Sylvain along with him, but doesn’t – if they end up in the shower together, they’ll never be ready in time for Leif coming home. 

And so they part ways for the moment: Claude to his ensuite, Sylvain back to his room. They shower one after the other, and when they’re both scrubbed clean and ready for the day, they meet back in the kitchen to make a breakfast of pancakes and bacon and eggs. 

Leif arrives right as Claude finishes setting the table and Sylvain plates the last stack of pancakes. There’s a knock on the door – short and curt, so probably Felix – then about forty rapid dings of the doorbell, which can only mean someone lifted Leif up to ring it.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Sylvain calls, sliding the plate he’d been holding onto the table as he hurries past it. Claude watches him go, letting his eyes roam over Sylvain’s back in his form-fitting T-shirt and the pants slung loose on his hips without a belt. It’s an absolutely delectable sight, and if Sylvain’s son weren’t about to come running into the house, Claude may have just pulled Sylvain up against the wall and repeated last night’s performance. 

But as it is, he can only daydream, and even those daydreams dissipate once he hears Leif’s voice from the hallway: “Hi, Daddy!” 

“Hey, kiddo! Did you have fun with Uncle Dimitri?” 

Claude looks out into the hallway, past Sylvain and to Dimitri and Felix standing in the doorway. Sylvain has picked Leif up, and they’re both smiling identical smiles. 

“Uh-huh!” 

“And how about Uncle Felix?” 

“No way!” 

“Hmph.” Claude can’t see Felix’s scowl, but he can imagine it well enough, especially when he hears Dimitri laugh in response. 

“Aw, hey, Leif, that’s not nice,” Sylvain says, even though he’s clearly in on the joke – which Claude knows because Leif says this every time, specifically because Sylvain taught him to. “You’re gonna hurt Uncle Felix’s feelings.” 

Leif giggles. “Just kidding! I had lotsa fun with Uncle Felix. We played swords!” 

“Did he let you win?” 

“I never let him win,” Felix says.

“It’s true,” Dimitri says. “But little Leif has been learning, it seems. He gave Felix quite the run for his money.” 

“Attaboy.” Sylvain ruffles his son’s hair; Leif whines and tries to squirm out of his arms. “Now say goodbye, Leif.” 

He does, and Dimitri and Felix say their goodbyes in turn. They linger at the door a moment, communicating silently, but whatever conversation they’re having with their eyes ends when Sylvain gives them a slow, polite nod. 

Once they’re gone, Sylvain shuts the door and carries Leif into the kitchen. The smile on his face is radiant when he tells Leif, “We’ve got a surprise for you, buddy.” 

He gestures to the kitchen table with one arm, and Leif’s face lights up when he realizes what the surprise it. “Pancakes?!” He giggles and tugs on Sylvain’s collar. “With syrup?”

“All the syrup you want,” Claude says. “As long as Daddy says it’s okay.” 

And oh, is his choice of words worth it for the blush that spreads over Sylvain’s face. “Y-yeah, whatever you want,” he says, To his credit, Sylvain gathers his composure rather quickly. “We’re celebrating today, after all.” 

“We are?” Leif looks confused, but he doesn’t protest. He just reaches for the bottle of syrup when Sylvain sets him down in his chair, accepting it when Claude slides it to him. 

“Yup.” Sylvain grins. “Or, well, we might be. But first I’ve got to ask you something.” 

Leif fidgets. He looks guilty for a moment, no doubt expecting that he’s still in trouble for his bad behaviour. 

“Don’t worry, you’re fine,” Claude assures him. Leif’s eyes flicker to him, then back to his dad. 

“Yeah, this is a good thing,” Sylvain insists. “So, you know how we’re just supposed to be staying with Claude for a little while?” 

Leif blinks. He looks like he’s about to burst into tears. “Y-yeah…?” 

“Well,” Claude cuts in. Leif turns his panicked gaze to him, and Claude puts on his best and gentlest smile. “How would you like to stay with me a little longer?” 

Leif blinks. Tears well up in his eyes. “Huh?” 

“Claude asked me if we wanted to live with him for good,” Sylvain says, keeping his voice soft so as not to startle the tears from his son. “And I told him that if you were okay with it, we would.” 

And that’s it. The dam breaks, first with a sniffle, then a full-on sob. Leif squeezes his eyes shut, tears streak down his face, and he opens his mouth and wails. 

“Hey, hey!” Sylvain is by his son’s side in an instant, sitting in the chair next to him and grabbing a napkin on the table to try and wipe his tears away. “It’s okay, Leif! Don’t cry, this is a good thing!” 

“Daddy!” Leif wipes futilely at his own face, his little fists not clearing his tears away so much as smearing them around. Claude offers Sylvain a second napkin. “I – I wanna! Can we? Can we p-p-please stay with Claude?”

“Of course we can,” Sylvain says gently. “Right, Claude?”

“Nothing would make me happier.” Claude smiles. Leif finally opens his eyes and, still sniffling, looks back at Claude. It only lasts a moment, though; seconds later, he’s crying again, even louder than before. 

“I’m sorry!” Leif sobs. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m s-sorry I was bad. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“You didn’t make me mad,” Sylvain says. He runs a hand over the top of Leif’s head, brushing his hair back and petting it in an attempt to soothe him. “I know you were just scared. You really love Claude, don’t you?” 

“U-uh-huh…” Leif sniffs and swallows. “A-and you do too! I thought if we left you’d be really sad… so I called him Papa so we could s-s-stay and all be h-happy…” 

Sylvain looks up. Claude meets his eye, and he sees his own shock reflected in Sylvain’s expression: wide eyes, gaping mouth, brows arched high. He looks _floored_ , and Claude is sure he doesn’t look much better.

For once, he has no idea what to say, and silence settles over the room, broken only by Leif’s slowly ebbing sniffles and sobs. But eventually, Sylvain looks back at his son, a soft, sympathetic smile on his face.

“I see,” he says quietly. “You’re a good kid, Leif, you know that?” 

“But I was bad,” Leif says. 

“It’s okay. We all do silly things when we’re scared.” Sylvain laughs, and he glances at Claude. Claude has a feeling Sylvain is apologizing for his own behaviour just as much as he’s trying to help Leif rationalize his. 

Claude accepts the unspoken apology with a slow nod. “Yeah. What matters is that we do our best to make things right.” 

Leif nods. He’s smiling now, the tears drying on his face. Sylvain dabs the last of them away. “So does that mean I can call you Papa?” he asks. 

Claude and Sylvain share a grin. “Yeah,” Sylvain says.

“You can call me whatever you want,” Claude adds. “We’re kind of a family now, aren’t we?” 

“We are?” Leif beams, happier even than when he’d seen the pancakes on the table.

“Yeah.” Sylvain gets up and walks over to Claude’s side of the table, sliding a hand around the back of his chair and dipping down to place a firm, slow kiss on Claude’s lips. “We are.” 

He expects Leif to make a face, to shout _‘bleh!’_ in the way that little kids do when they see someone kiss in front of them. But Leif just laughs again, loud and watery, and his tears start anew. Happy tears this time, not guilty ones, but Sylvain rushes to his son’s side to wipe them up all the same. 

And Claude watches it all with a smile on his face. There’s still a lot for them to sort out, but at least for now, they can just enjoy the moment.

For now, they can sit together and enjoy their first official breakfast as a family.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
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